


The Great Wendigo Hunt of 1995

by pissedoffeskimo



Series: Incestuous Cross-country Shenanigans [5]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Humor, John's Dubious Parenting Skills, Mild Het, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-06
Updated: 2014-10-06
Packaged: 2018-02-20 03:49:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2413892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pissedoffeskimo/pseuds/pissedoffeskimo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Hey, Krissy, you want to hear about the Great Wendigo Hunt of 1995?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Great Wendigo Hunt of 1995

**_Present Day_ **

“Hey, Krissy, you want to hear about the Great Wendigo Hunt of 1995?”

“Don’t do it, Krissy!” Dean interrupted loudly, one finger of the hand holding his beer pointed at her, his eyes stern.

“Stay out of this, Dean.” Sam waved him off, his attention never wavering from Krissy and the Vanilla Float she was nursing. “So, you want to hear it or not?”

Something in his over-exuberant smile told her to say no, but then Dean said not to, so it had to be good. After a minute, she took a long, comforting pull of ice cream and coke through her straw and nodded.

 

*****

 

**_March 1995_ **

“Tell you what, Sammy, next time we’re hunting a supernatural pedophile, you can be the bait. Until then, get your ass back in the circle and shut the fuck up!”

“Dean, language!” John admonished.

“Whatever, he’s the one that wants to get eaten by a Wendigo!”

“I don’t want to get eaten by anything, I just don’t want you to get eaten, either. Why can’t dad be the bait?”

“Because things never go after dad, he scares them.”

Which was a valid, freakin’ point and Sammy knew it. John Winchester practically oozed ‘don’t fuck with me’ and nothing went after him that wasn’t looking for a challenge. Wendigo’s were vicious little fuckers, but they didn’t live over a hundred years by being reckless. If the prey was too dangerous, they’d kill it and move on to something less threatening.

At sixteen, Dean could kill just about anything, given the right weapon, but he still had the slim build of youth and a baby face that said he could be trusted, which he couldn’t, but a Wendigo wouldn’t know that. Neither had Mercy Sanders or her cousin Shawn, for that matter, and maybe if they’d been a little less gullible, they wouldn’t have ended up in bed with him together. It was okay, though, he was pretty sure they weren’t blood related – like eighty percent sure and that was better then the odds he faced being Wendigo bait.

Point was, he had a talent for looking like an easy target to anything with claws and he had no problem using that on a hunt. He just wished his brother would stop bitching about it.

Sam stood with his arms straight down at his sides, his fists clenched, leaning forward like he was thinking about throwing a punch. John stepped between them and pushed Sam back firmly with a hand on either shoulder. “Sammy, this is Dean’s job. You asked to tag along, now stop interfering.”

For a second, Dean thought Sam was going to throw the punch he’d been gearing toward at John, but instead, he turned his back to them and sat down in a huff, arms crossed over his chest. For being twelve years old, he did a really good impression of a toddler.

John and Dean ignored him, going over to the packs sitting on the other side of the fire. John rummaged through one, tugging out the GPS tracker that Dean tucked into his jacket pocket. The plan was simple. The Wendigo would attack, Dean would play possum after the first hit or two, it would drag him off, and Sam and John would follow the signal to its cave.

Reaching back into the pack, John pulled out two road flairs and duck tape. Dean groaned, “Do I have to?”

“Ye…”

They were interrupted by Sam, who stormed over, took his large bag of skittles out of his pack, and storming back to his side of the fire.

John shook his head. “Yes. Chances are you won’t need it, but just in case.”

Reluctantly, Dean pulled up the left leg of his jeans. The duck tape was a son of a bitch to peel off later. He’d lose the hair, not to mention layers of skin and it would itch and pull like a son of a bitch, but his dad was right. He’d rather go in with a weapon, even if he knew the cavalry was right behind him.

John carefully wound the tape around Dean’s leg, anchoring the flairs above his boot line. Just as he finished patting it down firmly into place, a scream tore through the forest. They stared at each other then turned to the other side of the fire where Sam was supposed to be sitting and found the space empty.

Dean’s, “Son of a bitch!” was echoed by John’s, “God dammit, Sammy!”

 

*****

 

Long story short, Skittles made a pretty good trail, John Winchester was a badass with a flame thrower, Dean totally _didn’t_ cry when he couldn’t get Sam to wake up for nearly two minutes, and Sam had a dislocated shoulder and the right side of his head was matted with blood, but the little bastard still had enough presence of mind to grin at Dean and slur, “Better’n bread crumbs.” before passing out again.

John carried Sam back to the car and they drove in silence to the hotel. Overall, Sam got pretty lucky. Head injuries bled bad, so it looked worse then it was, but even a mild concussion was still a concussion, which meant he needed at least a day to recuperate. They got the shoulder reset, but he wasn’t going to have full use of the arm for a few weeks.

To make matters worse, they couldn’t account for all the bodies. They’d done a check before leaving and there were two unaccounted for.

Dean tried to look on the bright side, “Maybe they put up too much of a fight and it left them in the woods.”

John was more realistic, “That was its hunting ground. If there were bodies to be found, we would have. No, there’s something else going on here. I’m gonna go look around town.”

“Hold up, I’ll get my stuff.”

“No.” Dean opened his mouth to protest, but John wasn’t having it. “Someone needs to stay here with Sammy.”

Sammy protested into his pillow with, “I dun’ nee’ babysi…”

Then he was unconscious again and Dean sighed. “Fine, just… call if you need anything.”

After John left, Dean sat on the bed next to Sam, grabbing the remote off the night stand to turn the TV on, volume low. Sam’s arm moved over in his sleep until it was draped over Dean’s leg and he rolled his eyes. Even with a concussion, his brother had no concept of personal space.

He reached over and stroked Sam’s hair, sitting back to watch a fuzzy Simpsons episode while Sam slept off the pain pills.

 

*****

 

It was rounding on ten and John still hadn’t called to check in, which put him at five hours out and that was an hour too long for Dean. He looked at the clock beside the bed and shifted carefully off the mattress. Sam took a shaky breath in and opened his eyes, pushing up onto his elbows to look at Dean blearily. “Whatcha doin’?”

“Soda, go back to sleep.”

He got to his knees and shook his head, “No, I need a shower. I stink.”

Dean nodded emphatically and got a pillow thrown at him for his effort. “Prissy little bitch, aren’t we?”

“Jerk. Get me a Sprite.” Dean slipped out the door as Sam made his way into the bathroom.

As he walked across the parking lot, he pulled the loose change out of his pocket, counting quarters in his palm. The Impala was still missing from its space. He’d have to call John when he got back. It probably wasn’t anything, wouldn’t be the first time his dad took too long and forgot to check in. Come to that, maybe he should wait another hour, because it also wouldn’t be the first time his dad decided to get a little stress relief while he was out, but with Sam injured, if Dean called, he would pick up, regardless of what he was in the middle of and Dean so didn’t need to hear that again. Nearly a year later and he still couldn’t do phone sex.

“Hey.”

He turned to the velvet smooth voice behind him and stopped, smile playing easy and immediate on his face at the young girl behind him. She was older then him, early twenties, but pretty with long brown hair and a lavender sun dress that dipped low between her breasts. For just a second, he thought she looked pale, but then she smiled and it was probably just the poor lighting in the parking lot, because she had a great smile. And really great boobs.

“Hey, yourself.”

She played with a strand of her hair, looked him up and down, “I haven’t seen you around.”

“Yeah, I’m just passin’ through.”

“This may be a little forward, but you are all kinds of pretty and in a town like this, I don’t see much pretty. So, what do you say we go back to my place and fuck like rabbits?”

Dean stuttered, trying to pull the smile off his face and failing miserably. “That is… that is really tempting.”

Really tempting, but Sammy was back at the hotel. She licked her lower lip and her hand dropped to play with the line of fabric barely covering her nipple and Sammy wasn’t a little kid anymore, right? He was nearly a teenager and he knew how to use a gun and she was all hips and boobs and hair.

“You know what, just, give me a minute.” _Wait._ “How far away is it?”

Her smile brightened, “Just down the road.”

He started to turn and stopped again, “I’m sixteen.” Because it wasn’t worth ditching Sam if it wasn’t a sure thing.

“I don’t have a problem with that.”

Dean caught himself one more time, apologizing as he deposited fifty cents in the machine for Sam’s Sprite before sprinting back to the room, immediately going to his bag by the bed and fishing out the condoms while he called to the bathroom where the water was running, “Sammy, you in there?!”

The shower curtain rustled, “What?!”

“You feeling better?”

“Why?!”

He sidled up to the door, pushing it open so they wouldn’t have to yell. Sam certainly looked better, not nearly as pale, his legs weren’t shaking and he had his bitch face on, so, yeah, better.

“I’ve got something I gotta do. I’ll be back in a few hours.”

Sam rolled his eyes, “You mean some _one_. You get my Sprite?”

“It’s on the table. Cover for me if dad comes back?”

“Be back before Dad.”

Whatever. He dropped the spare key on the table, in case Sam needed to go out for anything, then thought better of it and pocketing the key, so Sam couldn’t leave the room.

She was still waiting for him when he got back, leaning against the hood a red car parked just outside their room. “You ready?”

“We’ll have to walk and, uh, I should probably get your name.”

“I’m Tamara and don’t worry. Like I said, it’s not far.”

 

*****

 

Sam missed their apartment in Ohio. It had cable. He slapped the top of the tube television and gave up, turning it off in favor of a book. He figured he was probably the only kid in his school that dreaded Spring Break. Spring Break meant Dad could take them on hunts, or, more specifically, he could drop Sam off with someone and take Dean on hunts, which was what had gotten him here in the first place. He was just so tired of being left behind, but three days in and he was really wishing he’d agreed to stay at Pastor Jim’s.

The door opened and Sam looked over to see his dad coming in. Ha, Dean was in so much shit.

John stopped just inside the door, looking over the salt lines Sam had laid out on the window sill and in front of the door before addressing the obvious absence in the room. “Where’s your brother?”

Sam didn’t bother looking up from his book, because he already knew the exact expression of impending exasperation that would be on his dad’s face. “I dunno, he met someone out in the parking lot and went to have sex. Said he’d be back in a couple of hours.”

“He what?!”

“Bastard took the key, too, so I couldn’t go out and get snacks. I had to eat his peanut M&M’s. If there’s a god, he’ll end up with gonorrhea.”

“Sammy!”

“What?!” And now he did look up, “He’s a complete slut and I hate peanut M&M’s.”

John had suddenly decided to ignore Sam in favor of digging through the bag of weapons by the door and Sam caught on that something more might be going on then just Dean disobeying a direct order, “What?”

John took out a gun, set it on the table, bullets next, the special silver ones. A silver dagger followed, along with a machete.

“Dad, what’s going on?”

“Your brother’s an idiot is what’s going on.” He stood up, loading the gun and tucking the various weapons into place while he talked. “The two victims we couldn’t find were young men passing through on their way to Chicago. One of them turned up at the morgue. Best I can tell, something drained the life out of him. No known cause of death, otherwise.”

“And?”

“And there was an old woman that died a month ago, rumor around town is she was a witch. Rumor also has it her son is a witch. They lived a pretty reclusive life and a few of his friends said they were close, creepy close. He’d do anything for her. I stopped by her grave and it was a botanical massacre.”

“And?”

“And we’ve got two young men missing, at least one dead by supernatural means, a witch that most likely raised another witch from the dead, and your brother steps out of the hotel for five minutes and picks up a random chick? I mean, I get that he’s good, but is he really _that_ good?”

Sam ran that the list through his head and came up with, “Shit.”

He grabbed for a knife and gun of his own and John raised his eyebrows, “What do you think you’re doing?”

“I’m coming with you.” Because concussion and shoulder injury aside, this was Dean they were talking about.

John considered it for a minute and sighed, “I don’t have time to argue with you. Just stay behind me.”

 

*****

 

The thing about witches was, they were tricky. If they were powerful enough, they could do anything from mask their appearance with an illusion to keep themselves young indefinitely and they could burn you alive from the inside or toss you across the room with a thought.

The thing about zombies was, there were too many different kinds to nail down one means of dispatching them. So when you ended up with a zombie witch, brought back from the dead by another witch, there was no telling what the hell you were gonna walk in on.

The son, thankfully, was young enough not to know how to really use his power and John had him with a bullet between the eyes before he got out, “Who the hell are you?” Actually, all he really got out was, “Who th…”

They’d have to burn the body later to be sure, but he was down for now. The sounds coming from the basement left very little doubt as to where Dean was and what he was doing. The silencer on the gun made sure they still had the element of surprise and, really, Sam was pretty damn surprised.

It wasn’t that he hadn’t seen Dean naked, or that he hadn’t seen the kind of women his brother had sex with, it was that he had been blissfully unaware of what Dean looked like when he was having sex. He had just enough time to register that Dean was not only on his back on a twin bed, but his hands were tied to the wrought iron frame with a thick corded belt and a woman with dark hair was straddling him, her hips grinding down into his in the kind of lewd way he’d only read about in the magazines Dean hid at the bottom of his duffel. Dean’s knees were bent up, his legs tense, muscles rigid and his arms pulled tight at the restraint as he pushed up into her, her fingers playing over the defined plain of his pecs.

Maybe blissfully unaware wasn’t the right word. Maybe just unaware. Maybe tragically unaware. Or…

He ran into John’s back, bounced off it with a few stumbling feet while his dad took aim and unloaded a silver bullet into the witch’s head. From his vantage point, Sam hadn’t been able to see her face, but he had seen the smooth, pale skin of her naked back and the soft curve of silky white thighs.   The instant the bullet hit home, her head whipped around and the illusion flickered out, leaving a snarling, rotting corpse in its place with grey green, pealing skin, eyes glazed over in white, and at least half a row of missing teeth.

Dean started at the gunshot, his attention wholly on John, “Jesus Christ, Dad, what the hell?!”

John loaded and aimed the gun again and Dean finally looked up. The shriek that filled the room was entirely manly and if Sam ever dared to say otherwise, Dean reserved to right to tell everyone about the Valentine’s Day Debacle of 1998.

He bucked up, trying to dislodge her, but her thighs gripped him with unnatural strength as she leered at them and now that Sam was focused on something other then, ‘ _Dean’s having sex’_ and _‘oh, dear fucking god, Dean’s having sex with a corpse_ ,’ he could see the faint glow coming from them, just a shade brighter around her then his brother.

Thankfully, John didn’t seem to be having the same problem as Sam and he came forward with his machete, hacking her head off in a solid swing that sent it rolling off the bed and dark, congealed blood oozed out of the body and onto Dean and the bed. The second shriek was just as manly as the first.

Rushing forward, Sam fumbled the knot a few times before managing to get it undone and Dean pushed and kicked and scrambled off the bed, knocking the corpse to the floor and taking the bed blood soaked bed sheet with him. They all stood silently for several minutes, John glowering at Dean, Dean panting as he held onto Sam with one hand, the other holding a sheet around his waist protectively, and Sam staring at the bed where his brother had been…

“Dean, you… you had sex with a dead woman!”

Dean rounded on Sam, “She was not dead, she was… she was undead.”

“No, that’s a vampire. She was a zombie – the walking dead. As in, _dead_. A _corpse_. That you had sex with.”

Dean narrowed his eyes and John decided that since his glares were going completely unnoticed, they weren’t worth the effort. He’d rip the kid a new one later.

“Dean, put on some pants and help me get the bodies upstairs. Sam, take care of the evidence, make sure Dean didn’t leave anything behind.”

They rushed to follow orders, because the problem with zombies and witches both was you never knew if they were really dead until they were _really_ dead and no one wanted to give either corpse a chance to reanimate. As Sam wadded up the sheets and wiped down the metal framework, careful to avoid touching any of the various bodily fluids, he silently vowed to never let Dean forget this. Ever.

 

*****

 

**_Present Day_ **

Krissy stared, “You said that was gonna be a story about a Wendigo hunt.”

Sam looked smug, “I know.”

“But…” She glanced at Dean, but he shrugged, working on his second beer, “that had almost nothing to do with Wendigos!”

“Well, yeah, but if I’d said, ‘you wanted to hear about the time Dean had sex with a dead chick,’ you would have said no.”

Dean chimed in with, “I told you not to,” which wasn’t helping.

Neither was Sam. “Funny how no one ever listens to you.”

“Funny how your face is… funny… looking.”

“Smooth, Dean, real mature.”

“Bitch.”

“Jerk.”

Krissy tried to wrap her head around the fact that these were the men who supposedly stopped the apocalypse – twice, that she knew of, possibly more if she believed the rumors. It wasn’t working.

“Okay, fine. Are you guys gonna help me hunt this thing, or did you want to, I don’t know, tell me about the time Sam had sex with a… a werewolf or whatever?”

Dean perked up, “Well, now that you mention it…”


End file.
